What We Leave Behind

Emma found herself running before dawn, the rhythm of her sneakers on pavement matching the thrum of panic that had lived in her chest for three weeks. Since Marcus left. Since the letter. Since everything.

The apartment was too quiet now. She'd catch herself staring at his side of the bed—still dented where he used to sleep, his dark hair on the pillowcase even after she'd washed it twice. Some things left stains you couldn't clean.

Barnaby, their orange tabby, had taken to sleeping on Marcus's pillow instead. The cat's judgment was silent but absolute. Emma had never been a cat person until Marcus, but now Barnaby was the only living thing that looked at her like she still mattered.

She slowed to a walk, chest heaving, somewhere near the park where they'd had their first real conversation. Four years ago. He'd been eating a papaya—messy, exotic, completely out of place on a October afternoon in Chicago.

'You know what's funny about papayas?' he'd said. 'They look so ordinary on the outside. But inside, they're this whole different thing. Black seeds. Bright orange. Like they're hiding something.'

Emma had fallen in love with his hands first. The way he'd gestured when he spoke. The way he'd later push her hair behind her ear like he was memorizing her face.

Now she knew: sometimes people were like papayas too. You thought you knew what was inside them, what they were capable of, until you cut them open and found something else entirely.

Her phone buzzed—her sister, probably, checking in again. Emma ignored it. Some griefs needed to be felt alone.

Barnaby would be waiting by the door when she got back. The apartment would still be quiet. The pillow would still hold the ghost of Marcus's shape. She would shower, wash the sweat and the memories down the drain, and maybe tomorrow it would hurt a little less.

Or maybe not.

Emma started running again.